The Great Villain! Takes in a Stray…?

Lucian exhaled sharply, running a bloodied hand through his hair. The Codex was gone, but its presence still itched at the edges of his mind—a phantom limb of cruelty, always waiting to return. His breath steadied. He needed to move. If he stood still for too long, he'd start thinking. And thinking… led to dark places.

He looked down at the child before him—small, trembling, yet with eyes that burned despite their dimness.

He had seen that look before. In someone else.

Straightening, he extended a hand. "I've seen those eyes before." His voice was calm, measured. A noble might have offered a hand in pity. Lucian offered his with purpose.

A goblin army? That was a solid foundation. But a child with nowhere else to go? That was the start of something far more enduring. Loyalty forged in desperation had a way of lasting.

"You," Lucian said, tilting his head. "What's your name?"

The boy hesitated, clutching at the tattered sack he wore in place of clothing. His fingers twitched. His lips parted, as if he might say something—then shut tight again.

Lucian studied him, the way his small hands clenched, the way his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. This child had been conditioned to expect pain before kindness.

"I… I don't have one…" the boy whispered, barely above a breath.

Lucian exhaled, rubbing his temple. A familiar story. He could walk away. He could leave the boy to rot like the rest of the world already had.

But then those eyes…

"Tch." His smirk returned, more to himself than the child. "Then I'll call you… Ignir."

A simple name. A slight twist on Ignis. Not the most original, but fitting. A fire waiting to be reignited.

The boy—Ignir—blinked up at him, hesitating. Then, slowly, he nodded. "O… okay."

Lucian's smirk lingered as he turned, stepping forward. "Come, Ignir." His voice dropped, quiet but firm. "You belong to me now."

And for the first time, the child followed.

Lucian walked through the slums, his thoughts drifting. He had always been fond of children. Even in his early days as a Dark Lord—when destruction was his only creed—he found them… fascinating. Untainted. Brimming with potential.

They could still choose—light or dark, hero or monster. And he had seen many orphans, abandoned by the so-called righteous, pledge themselves to his army.

He exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile. And yet, I still became a Dark Lord? Soft as a human with no Dominions.

His gaze flicked behind him, where Ignir trailed close, his small frame tense with uncertainty.

"Do you know any inns around here?" Lucian asked casually. His smile was soft—perhaps genuine, perhaps calculated. Even he wasn't sure. The Codex's influence still lingered at the edges of his mind, faint but persistent.

Ignir hesitated. He didn't like inns. Too many adults. Too many drunks.

"It's… a few feet from here," the boy muttered, eyes darting away. But then, as if realizing he couldn't falter now—not after being chosen—he steeled himself.

He took a hesitant step forward. "Follow me… I'll lead us there."

Then he paused.

"Uhmm…" Ignir's voice wavered. "What… what should I call you?"

Lucian blinked, then chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. "It's Lucian."

"Lucian," Ignir repeated, his face lighting up in a small, uncertain smile.

Lucian's thoughts swirled again. To suffer so much yet still smile so easily…

Yes. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to children all along.

They arrived at the inn—a crumbling wreck with a half-rotten sign hanging over the warped doorway. The stench of stale ale and damp wood seeped from within.

Lucian clicked his tongue. "I've seen better slum taverns." He smirked, recalling the capitals he had once razed, where even the slums could have passed for cities.

"Mortal kingdoms are such a joy to compare," he mused, glancing at Ignir.

"Yeah…!" Ignir hesitated, forcing a laugh as if playing along with a joke he didn't understand.

Lucian sighed and knocked the boy lightly on the head. "No need to humor me. I didn't become a genius at charisma by having people laugh at my jokes out of pity." He placed a hand on his chest in mock offense.

Then, without another word, he pushed the door open.

The scent of beer—cheap, sour, and poorly brewed—hit him first. The second assault was the sight of ragged, half-conscious men slumped over tables, their voices a dull murmur beneath the crackling of a poorly kept fireplace.

Lucian exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the tavern. The remnants of the Codex's grip still clung to his mind, but he forced himself forward. Theatrics had always been his shield—his way of controlling a room before it could control him.

So, as the dimly lit inn fell silent at his presence, he straightened his posture, raised a hand dramatically, and smirked.

"Bow your heads, peasants!"

Ignir froze. What is he doing?! He knew the adults in this part of the slums weren't submissive to nobles. Lucian was strong—there was no doubt about that—but to provoke an entire inn full of men? Was he insane?

The room fell silent. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. A noble? Here?

He was either looking for slaves… or just an idiot.

A burly man scoffed, raising his arms. "You a noble or what?"

Lucian turned to him with an exaggerated sigh. "Silence, peasant. You weren't given permission to speak." His tone wasn't entirely serious—no, it was mocking, deliberately taunting.

The man's brow twitched. "Oh, I'm sorry," he chuckled darkly, cracking his knuckles. Then, without warning, he hurled his beer mug at Lucian with surprising speed.

Impressive. I should hire him to hurl traitors off castle walls.

Lucian caught it effortlessly.

"Why, thank you!" He grinned, raising the cup to his lips.

Then he took a sip.

And immediately spat it out.

"Gah—! Who brewed this swill? It tastes like a rat took a piss in it."

His gaze snapped to the bartender—an oversized man with a grin just a little too wide, his eyes glinting with amusement.

The room remained silent for a second.

Then, someone laughed.

Well… not for long. A beer mug smacked them square in the forehead, sending them reeling.

"I'm doubling your tab," a deep voice rumbled through the inn.

Lucian arched a brow. Surprisingly, it belonged to the barkeep—a man with an oddly youthful face despite the sheer weight of his voice.

"I never knew a baby face could sound so intimidating," Lucian mused, covering his mouth as if stifling a laugh.

"Oh?" The barkeep leaned forward, eyes glinting with amusement. "And I never thought such a pretty face could have such a stupid voice."

Lucian gasped, dramatically pressing both hands to his mouth. A vein twitched at his temple.

"Living keg with opinions." he shot back, smile twitching.

"Dung eater," the barkeep retorted without hesitation.

The exchange escalated from there, insults flying back and forth like a well-rehearsed duel. The rest of the inn watched with growing interest—some laughing, others placing bets on who would land the final blow. Even Ignir, initially confused, found himself staring in wide-eyed fascination.

The battle of wits raged for a full five minutes.

As the barrage of insults finally slowed, both men stood tall, chests puffed, chins high—two prideful fools locked in a battle of sheer stubbornness.

"Ah-ha!" A brilliant insult struck Lucian's mind, one that would surely seal his victory.

"Penniless d—"

He froze. A realization dawned.

…Oh. Right. I'm broke as well.

Slowly, Lucian lowered his hand, placing a thoughtful finger against his forehead. He furiously tapped his foot, searching for another insult.

Drat. If this man were a hero, I could roast him for an entire year! But a random barkeep in some no-name slum? What am I supposed to work with?

 The barkeep leaned forward slightly, catching the hesitation. His grin widened. He thought he had won.

"That all you got, princess?"

 Lucian tapped his forehead furiously. Think. Think! A devastating insult, a perfect comeback—something! There had to be a way to salvage this—

…Or.

He could simply abandon words altogether.

The grin that spread across Lucian's face was slow, deliberate. His fingers flexed. The barkeep's amusement faltered slightly.

Then, without a word—Lucian slapped him.

Hard.

A sharp crack echoed through the inn.

Lucian's smile gleamed as the room fell silent.

Looks like diplomacy (if this even counted as diplomacy) was no longer an option.